“This is a side of you I did not know,” I said. “I have not seen that opera, but will be sure to go if Covent Garden ever performs it.”
“And you, Michelle,” Violet said, “what is your favorite?”
“I have not seen so many as the two of you, but I think perhaps… perhaps The Magic Flute.”
Violet laughed. “Of course! I should have known someone with your sunny disposition would favor Mozart, and that is the most jubilant of all his operas. And you, like Pamina, have made it through the trials by fire and water with your prince, and now you live happily after!”
I smiled. “Well, I hope so.” I had finished my dessert. Marguerite had left hers half-eaten. If she had been Henry, I would have offered to finish it for her. “I think we had better be going if we want to be on time.”
Marguerite insisted on paying for the meal. We put on our coats and started down the pavement toward the Opera. It had recently been converted to electric lights, and the facade was brilliantly lit. There were those who found the Opera terribly overdone, but I liked the elaborate, almost rococo exterior with all the sculptures and friezes. Nearby, on either side of the green copper dome where Apollo stood at the summit with his lyre, were two golden statues, angelic female representations of Harmony and Poetry. As we drew nearer, I could make out the row of comic and tragic masks sculpted along the bottom of the roof. I had managed to somehow ignore them for many years, seeing only ornamentation, until Henry had pointed them out to me. He and Sherlock were both experts on the Palais Garnier because of a celebrated case involving the opera ghost which had taken place just before Henry and I were married.
Equal in spectacle to the exterior was the grand stairway indoors with its beautiful marbles and multitude of lights. A throng of people was gathered: we passed women in beautiful gowns and jewelry, men in their black formal wear or, occasionally, in the gaudy red and blue uniforms with gold epaulets of the French military. One soldier smelled strongly of cigar smoke, while his lady had on some overpowering perfume—a dreadful mélange! We passed the heroic bronze maidens holding their sculpted torches with multiple lamps as we went up the stairs.
Marguerite led the way, and soon we came to the box she had reserved. One of the nice parts about having a box was that you need not queue up to check and then later recover your coat. We draped ours over a chair, then went to the front and stared about the vast auditorium. Two colors dominated: much of the dome, the pillars and fronts of each stage of loges were gold, while the three-story-tall curtain, the seats, and much of the loges were red. We were on the first floor up, quite near the stage on the left side, a prime location. The steady drone of the spectators filled the hall. Above us was the grand chandelier of bronze and crystal, more dazzling than ever now that it was lit with electricity. A slight shiver went up my back as I recalled Henry describing how it had once come crashing down.
I looked right, left, then right again. Henry and Sherlock were sitting in a box on the second tier, about six over from our own box. Henry scratched at his chin, then smiled at me. Sherlock had been quite enthusiastic about attending the opera, and since he knew the management, he had little difficulty getting seats.
We all sat, Violet in the center, I to her left, Marguerite to her right. Violet had a bound libretto, and she set it on her lap. “I have done some research,” she said. “Macbeth was originally composed in 1847, but he reworked it for a performance in French here in Paris in 1865 during the height of the Second Empire. It was not well received and has not been revived in Paris since then. They are performing the later version tonight, but since the main singers are all Italians, it will be sung in their language.”
“A pity,” Marguerite said. “I know little Italian. You must tell me what is happening. I do not know the story at all.”
“It is simple enough,” Violet said. “Macbeth wants to be king of Scotland, and he has an ambitious evil wife who drives him to murder. He becomes king, but everything goes badly from then on.”
Marguerite was briefly silent, but nodded at last. “I see.”
The conductor appeared in the pit, and the applause began. He took his bow, then raised his baton, and soon launched into the overture. It was very atmospheric, low notes, then dancing twittery noises in the strings with high piccolo accompaniment, suggestive of the witches flitting about. That faded into a sweeping but melancholy melody. Soon the curtain rose on the blasted heath, all gray and green and shadowy, with dark forms stretched out on stage. They rose up, revealing the female chorus of witches, even as a flash of light simulated lightning, accompanied by musical thunder. The witches all wore shredded black rags, and the three main ones had manes of wild red hair.
I glanced down at Violet’s libretto. The women were singing a fairly literal translation of the witches’ opening speeches from Shakespeare. The setting was bleak and cold, but I could not help but recall warm French summers spent with my mother and my older brother. Determined I must be truly bilingual, she had spoken English with us, but she had wanted her children to also understand the Bard’s challenging archaic and poetic language, so we had started with A Midsummer Night’s Dream during my summer holiday when I was only eight. Macbeth was another of the plays we had read together a few years later.
Soon Macbetto, as the witches had sung, and Banquo entered. Both men had red beards and hair, and wore armor and furs along with drapes of plaid cloth. Macbeth might be short and barrel-chested, but he had a beautiful commanding baritone voice. Banquo’s cavernous bass matched his great size. The music varied between something truly dark and sinister, and something slightly lilting and dance-like.
I heard Violet whispering an explanation to Marguerite. I leaned forward slightly. Just past the slanted side partition of our box, I could follow the curve of our tier with the other loges, and a level up, I saw Holmes’s pale eager face with his distinctive beak of a nose. He was blocking Henry, who must have been sitting further back. Normally Sherlock would completely immerse himself in music, but I saw him raise a pair of binoculars to look at us, rather than the stage.
The scene shifted to Macbeth’s castle, which was hardly better lit than the heath. Lady Macbeth entered and read, rather than sang, a letter from Macbeth; then her high dramatic soprano voice filled the hall. It was always a mystery to me how opera singers could create such voluminous sound, and it was especially true for someone so petite and slight as this woman. She wore a red dress and had bounteous red hair, surely another wig. She called upon the infernal ministers to come to her aid in inciting her husband to commit murder. Soon Macbeth entered, and the two embraced.
Again I heard Violet’s whispered voice: “She wants him to kill the king, but he’s unsure and worried. She tells him they will not fail if he does not tremble.”
Soon Duncan, the old king, and his knights and courtiers arrived to be greeted by Macbeth and his lady. The woodwinds played a sort of little march. The nobles had hardly trooped on stage, when it was time for them to leave.
After they were gone the lights dimmed, leaving Macbeth surrounded by shadow. He spoke with his servant, who left him. Once he was alone, he started, then reached out with his right hand, singing, “Mi si affaccia un pugnal? L’elsa a me volta? Se larva non sei tu, ch’io ti brandisca!” I knew what the first part must be: Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? I glanced down at the libretto. The second line was quite different from the English, Come, let me clutch thee.
“He sees a dagger,” Violet whispered, “but he is not sure if it is real or imagined. He is trying to grab it, and realizes it’s only a vision.”
Marguerite seemed to rise up in her seat, to stiffen. Her eyes were fixed on the stage, her jaw tightly clenched. Macbeth staggered about, trying to seize the imaginary dagger. Kettle drums punctuated the sinister music.
“He’s singing something about a horrible specter, about blood on the blade, about bloody thoughts.”
“No more!” Marguerite whispered loud
ly. She set her gloved hand on Violet’s wrist. “I… Thank you, but I understand.”
Violet turned slightly, her eyes shifting briefly to mine.
A shimmery sound—either some type of gong or cymbals. I knew it was supposed to be the bell, and the bass strings accompanied Macbeth as he sang in Italian, Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell, that summons thee to Heaven or to Hell. Macbeth pulled the dagger from the sheath at his side and strode toward the portal to the king’s bed chamber.
Lady Macbeth re-entered and sang two lines. Her earlier self-confidence was gone; she seemed afraid. Macbeth murmured something off stage, and she sang something about “quel lamento.” Macbeth staggered through the doorway, the blade of the dagger held upward. I wondered if the stage attendants had been carried away, if they had accidentally doused him with a bucket of fake blood. His face and garments were splattered, and the hand holding the dagger was bright red. The spotlight also revealed the bloody crimson along the narrow blade. He let the hand with the dagger fall, then sang softly, “Tutto è finito!” All is finished.
A sort of muffled bang nearby made me start, and the people in the nearby boxes turned toward us. The orchestra and the performers heard nothing; they played and sang on. Marguerite must have knocked over her chair getting to her feet. She had clenched her fists, and her mouth was open in distress. She turned and fled, leaving the door to the box ajar. I was the first to follow her, but Violet was right behind me.
I stepped outside and looked right, then left. An usher in formal wear appeared quite surprised. Marguerite’s back was to me; she was striding toward the stairs, almost running, her green dress a sort of blazon against the red of the carpet and the gold of the friezes and decorations around the loge doors. I strode after her. Violet followed.
“Marguerite!” I could not bring myself to shout, but my voice was urgent and slightly hoarse.
We came to the grand stairway, passing two more surprised ushers along the way. Marguerite was taking the stairs at a frightful pace, without bothering to lift her dress. I had a horrible vision of her tripping, then rolling down along those hard white marble steps to land in a heap at the landing where the two stairways met. This time I did actually cry out her name. She made it to the landing, then started down the central staircase. When she reached the bottom, she actually began to run.
Violet was beside me, and she muttered something, even as she seemed to stumble slightly. I grabbed her arm quickly, felt her totter briefly, then catch her balance. Her mouth pulled into a pained smile. “Thank you!”
“We mustn’t go too fast.” I was holding up my skirts. “We don’t want to fall and break our necks.”
“No, indeed!” We were both rushing down the steps as quickly as we could.
We reached the bottom and started after Marguerite. An attendant in black by the door cried, “Madame!” but she ignored him and shoved open both tall doors with her hands.
Violet and I followed and stepped out into the chill night, prepared for a chase, but Marguerite had stopped at last. She stood at the edge of the pavement, staring out at the square. It had begun to rain in earnest and was very cold. We had all left our coats back in the box, and Marguerite was being drenched by the rain. I felt gooseflesh sprout along my bare upper arms. I walked up to her. “Marguerite?” I grasped her arm, wary that she might run off again. She was breathing hard, her fists clenched, and I felt a shudder quiver through her. She bared her teeth, then raised her head to glance up at the gray-white sky, letting the rain wash over her face, even as a sort of groan slipped free. Violet had taken her other arm.
“It is all right,” I said. “You are not in danger.”
She looked at me, her eyes wild, but they seemed to change as she recognized me. “Oh no,” she murmured. “No, no.”
“That blood was a trifle overdone,” Violet said. “But it was most assuredly not the real thing.”
“I cannot… I cannot…” Another shudder passed over her. “I cannot bear the sight of blood. It makes me… sick.”
“Come back inside,” I said. “It is freezing out here.”
“No, no—I will not go back!—I am done.”
I considered trying to persuade her to give the opera another try, then remembered there was probably worse to come—Banquo stabbed to death, and later his bloody ghost appearing at the banquet. I shook my head. “Of course you need not go back. We shall get our coats and leave. Perhaps some strong drink at a bar will help calm your nerves.”
“I just want to go home! Oh, this was a mistake—a dreadful mistake!”
“We shall certainly take you home, if that is what you wish, but first come inside while I fetch our coats. You needn’t come with me to the box, but there is no reason to wait out here in the freezing rain. Come along now.”
She drew in a long shuddery breath, then let it out in almost a gasp. She nodded, and Violet and I led her back through the doors. The attendant, an older man with bushy silvery eyebrows, stared at us, his concern obvious. “Is madame well?” he asked.
“She has taken ill. We shall just see her home. It is nothing grave. She will be fine.”
He nodded. “I am glad to hear it.”
“I’ll just get the coats. Look after her, Violet.”
Violet’s black eyebrows had come together, her brown eyes grim, and she nodded. She led Marguerite toward a nearby bench while I started back for the stairs.
On the landing where the grand stairway split into two, stood two men in their black formal wear, white tie and waistcoats, one quite thin with a high forehead and slicked-back black hair, the other sturdier, with thick brown hair and mustache: Holmes and Henry. I slowed as I approached them.
Henry took a step forward. “Is she all right? We saw you run outside. We were about to follow when you all came back inside.”
“I think so. I have to fetch our coats. We are leaving.”
Henry shook his head. “I suppose you must, but it’s a pity. The opera is very good.”
“You might as well stay and watch the rest.”
Holmes had said nothing, but his gray eyes stared intently at me, a slight mirthless smile pulling back his lips. I felt a sudden surge of anger. “You expected this, I suppose?”
“What?” Henry said.
Holmes was silent for a few seconds, then said, “‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’”
“What?” Henry repeated dully, like an echo.
I glared at him. “It’s a quote from Hamlet. He was going to try to trap Claudius into revealing his guilt by putting on a play which mimicked the murder of Hamlet’s father. It worked, too. Claudius panicked and had to leave—didn’t he.”
I was suddenly furious. “This is no play—this is not Shakespeare! You had no right to frighten her that way!”
Holmes drew back slightly. “I did not frighten her.”
“Do not mince words with me, Sherlock Holmes. It was a cruel trick, and it was wrong of you to make me complicit in your dirty business!”
His lips parted, his eyes troubled. “I’m sorry, Michelle, but I had to know for certain. It was her.”
I stared at him, then took half a step backward. Henry’s hand grasped my arm. “I do not believe that,” I said. “I cannot believe that.”
“I was watching through the binoculars. I saw her face.”
“You saw that she was afraid. Lady Macbeth didn’t actually stab Duncan, but the horror of it still destroyed her.”
Holmes shrugged. I could see that he thought the matter was settled. I stepped around him and started up the stairway. Henry was at my side. “Michelle,” he said, “Michelle.” We reached the top and started toward the hall with the box entrances. “I didn’t know—I swear I didn’t. I thought we were just going to the opera. Please slow down.” I turned to give him a pained smile, and he touched my cheek with his white-gloved hand.
My eyes briefly filled with tears. “I hate this,” I whispered.
�
�I know. Next time we shall go to the opera alone.”
We went to the box, and he helped me gather the coats. They were all laid across my arms. “I must see you and Sherlock tomorrow. Tell him we shall all meet, Violet included, at noon in the lobby of the Meurice.” He nodded.
Holmes was still standing on the landing. We did not speak as I passed him, but Henry gave my arm a parting squeeze before I started down the stairs.
Chapter Nine
When our carriage reached Marguerite’s townhouse, Violet paid the coachman and asked him to wait for her, then came inside with us. Jeanne was surprised to see us so early, but I explained that her mistress had taken ill. “A pity!” she said.
“Why don’t you help her get ready for bed,” I said, then turned to Marguerite. “I shall join you shortly and give you something to help you sleep.”
She frowned briefly, then nodded. She took a step toward the hallway, then turned back to Violet and me. “Thank you for being so considerate, Madame Grace, madame la docteur. I am sorry to have spoiled our night out.”
“No matter,” Violet said. “Unlike the good doctor, I don’t much relish the sight of blood myself. Next time we shall choose one of those Rossini comedies!”
Once Marguerite was gone, Violet and I stared at one another, then sighed in perfect unison. That unexpected harmony made us both smile. Violet shook her head. “She certainly was terrified. Sit down, Michelle, and if you wish, I shall bring you some of her husband’s marvelous elixir from Armagnac.”
“There is nothing I would like better.” I sank into the depths of the sofa, pulled off my long white gloves, hesitated, then removed my fancy shoes. “I cannot bear anything with a higher heel. They always make my feet hurt.”
Violet approached me with a glass of the amber brandy in either hand, then gave me one. “You have never been one to suffer for fashion’s sake. You were not born with your allotted share of feminine vanity.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 18
